Kill the Envious Moon
by Jixie
Summary: Quark and Grilka's on-again, off-again relationship gradually evolves into something more. This could only end one way: terribly for Worf.
1. Klingon Death March

**Kill the Envious Moon**

By Jixie 2/2018

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine © Paramount Television

Note: "178 Different Words for Rain" is a prequel / takes place in the middle of chapter 1, and there are references to the events there, but it's not required reading. They both stand alone.

* * *

 **Chapter 1:** **Klingon Death March**

"Sometimes the only thing more dangerous than a question is an answer." - Rules of Acquisition # 208

* * *

The cultural shift on Qo'noS was gradual.

It started years ago, with the rise of Emperor Kahless. Chancellor Martok would see it through. Worf had been right about him: Martok was the perfect leader to usher the Klingon Empire into a new era, strengthening and improving it along the way.

Once the dust from the Dominion War had settled, he started rooting out the corruption in the High Council. It was an arduous task, and it would take time before they saw any payoff. Where he could, he found ways to offer crooked Council members a way to restore their family honor and quietly step down. A few were able to keep their positions. A few had to be publicly discommendated.

The openings on the High Council meant a need for restructuring. It meant new blood. Lower government officials were promoted. Second-tier members of Great Houses, along with those in the lesser Great Houses, found themselves drawn into the world of Klingon politics.

Which was how Grilka found herself in the Great Hall, as an ancillary Council member.

They only brought her in for trivial cases: property disputes, child custody, minor infractions. She didn't mind; it was a starting point, one that would allow her to leverage into a better position down the road. More importantly, she enjoyed the work. She loved combat as much as any Klingon, but ever since her own legal battle with D'Ghor, she'd developed a fascination with Klingon law and politics.

Between cases she was approached by Ambassador Worf. He muddled along in polite conversation. It was entirely casual- he wasn't trying to pursue, but she could tell he was feeling things out.

"Come with me, Worf."

She linked her arm in his and walked briskly. He was surprised to find he had a little trouble keeping up.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," she said, "and I'm flattered. You're an honorable man and a great warrior. I've seen that you put the needs of our people above your own personal honor. You're a member of a Chancellor Martok's House, a House which I've always respected, even before he became Chancellor." She paused, smiling slightly. "On top of that, you're from a good blood line, and... you're very handsome."

"But," he said dismally, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"But I am not looking for a husband. I feel that marriage no longer suits me. Besides, marrying another Klingon will void my special dispensation. I know this is not your objective, however, I'm just not interested in relinquishing the headship of my House."

He withdrew his arm and stopped, and after a few steps she stopped and turned to face him.

Worf's face pinched as he struggled with inner conflict. The indecision flashed in his eyes.

Grilka sighed. "I know: you feel you've already courted me by proxy."

He was taken aback. "You _knew_?"

"I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say that-"

She stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Of course I knew. I'd spent the day before in the holosuites with Quark, re-enacting Kahless and Lukara's battle in the Great Hall at Qam-Chee. He is a tragically inept fighter, there's _no_ way he could've defeated Thopok." Her eyes lit up in amusement. "But that never stopped him! That little man has the tenacity of a rabid torg in rutting season. Worf, _you_ didn't win me over. You guided him through the formalities, but he... he swung a bloody lingta leg that was half his size and missed the table. He had to try again. That wasn't you, that was Quark."

"You... like this foolishness."

"He makes me laugh," she agreed. "It's more than that, though." She paused, wondering how to explain it so Worf would understand. "When we were married, he risked his life to save my honor and my House. Ferengi don't value honor, it didn't mean anything to him, but he knew that it meant everything to me. That is a rare form of courage, even among Klingons. The kind of courage you had to accept discommendation rather than undermine the High Council."

Worf scowled, a little offended that she'd just compared him to Quark, and worse, meant it as a complement. Then his expression softened, and he paused, before reluctantly finding himself in agreement with her.

"After Jadzia died, I went into glorious battle in her honor, so that she could enter Sto-vo-kor. Along with our closest friends, that... that Ferengi bartender joined us. I do not think he even believes in the existence of Sto-vo-kor."

"You understand, then."

"I suppose. But that does not mean I approve."

Grilka smiled. "No, of course not."

* * *

A few days later, she found an excuse to shuttle over the Deep Space Nine.

It had been several months since her last visit, and they picked up right where they'd left off. That was one of the defining aspects of their relationship: Grilka could come and go as she pleased, and Quark was always available.

She normally dropped by when she was feeling especially lonely and frustrated- Grilka was not one to blow off steam in a holosimulation, and Qo'noS lacked an appreciable dating pool for commitment-phobic, short-term liaisons. The few that _were_ available had too much to gain by marriage, and inevitably would try to pressure her into something more serious.

Her gin'tak Tumek had, on occasion, offered to help fulfill her most base physical needs. But she knew Tumek was not attracted her and only volunteered out of a sense of duty: she wouldn't dare to take advantage of him like that.

This visit was a little different, and Quark picked up on it. He stopped and sat up in the middle of their tryst to demand answers. "Why are you _really_ here, Grilka?"

"Don't taunt me," she scolded, pulling him back to her. "You won't win." Then she smiled. "Worf told me about your little adventure helping him destroy that Jem'Hadar shipyard, to restore Jadzia Dax's honor."

He choked, then laughed. "Figures. Tales of stupid heroics _would_ be a Klingon aphrodisiac. Well, let me tell you about-"

"Tales of heroics, yes. Bragging, no."

Quark looked up at her, grinning mischievously. "In that case, make sure you talk to Captain Kira before you leave. Ask her about the time I rescued Rom and the rest of the resistance... from a Dominion prison... when they were on death row."

"I will see to it." Grilka leaned back, absently stroking his ear, then gasped and swatted him. "No teeth," she growled.

* * *

To Worf's horror, Martok was delighted to hear about Grilka's bizarre love affair with Quark. Apparently, the idea tickled the older Klingon, who found it both hilarious and charmingly romantic.

Discovering she had slipped off to Deep Space Nine after rebuffing Worf's advances only sealed the deal. Martok quickly set about convincing Sirella to arrange a formal dinner with the House of Grilka.

This could only end one way: terribly for Worf.

* * *

Amidst the laughter and bloodwine, Martok found a way corner Tumek, pulling the adviser aside for a more private conversation. Worf stood at Martok's side, failing to hide his distress and trying not to think about what was unfolding.

"I want to make it clear that Gowron's dispensation allowed her to stay with the Feregni _without_ losing control of her House..."

Worf fantasized about a pack of wild torg breaking into the dinner hall and mauling the party, and the bloody fight of Klingon-versus-Nature that would follow.

"...after the incident with Thopok, I've been careful to vet crew-members and hired men, to make sure they're... open minded when it comes to inter-species relationships..."

"Good, good. In fact, I've worked alongside many fine warriors who were stationed on Deep Space Nine, and can give you references for those who were... amicable... towards the Ferengi there. Or at least, tolerant of them."

"That is very generous of you."

Worf imagined a viscous earthquake cleaving the building in half, the ground opening up to swallow everyone.

"-But I just don't see how he could stay on Qo'noS without dying in a challenge."

"Come now, he could always be represented by a champion," Martok glanced pointedly at Worf, a mischievous and calculating look in his eye.

"I am a delegate of the Federation," Worf said sternly. "It would be unbecoming for me to get involved."

"On the contrary- that gives you an obligation to protect the interests of the delicate alliances between Klingon, Federation, and Ferengi."

Worfs scowl deepened. "I will do whatever you order me to," he replied. "But as a friend, please _do not_ ask this of me."

Martok roared with laughter.

"That's what I love about you, Worf, your brutal honesty..."

The night went on, and hours later, a much drunker Martok finally started chatting up the equally blitzed Grilka.

"... I have many fond memories of the station. Speaking of," he awkwardly segued the conversation. "How was your trip to Deep Space Nine?"

"Very enjoyable. My visits there have always been... invigorating."

"Hmm. One would think that a station like Deep Space Nine would have little to offer a Klingon woman such as yourself."

"Why, Chancellor, what _ever_ do you mean?" She asked, followed by a short, barking laugh.

"Well it's very different from Klingon stations. It's quite... small, and one might find the quarters to be cramped. If you're accustomed to higher standards, it wouldn't be very satisfying."

"The quarters aren't _that_ cramped," she replied dryly. Then she smirked. "Besides, it makes up for its flaws in other ways. It's very innovative and enthusiastic." She paused, thinking. "I've been on different Klingon stations, human stations, a Romulan station once. And none of them are as... delightfully filthy."

"Enough. _Enough_." Sirella interrupted. "We all know you're talking about your disgusting sexual congress with that horrible little Ferengi. You should stop."

"Stop talking?" Grilka asked, leering. "Or stop the disgusting sexual congress?"

"Both."

* * *

The next time Grilka and Sirella met, it was in a Federation hospital.

"Martok sends his regards," Sirella said, casually snatching the padd from an intimidated human doctor. She scrolled through the padd as she approached Grilka's bed.

"This will be a scandal," Grilka acknowledged, cutting right to the chase. "The one and only matriarch of a Great House, having a failed pregnancy, out of wedlock, with a non-Klingon..."

"Worse, a Ferengi. A human or Vulcan bastard child would be less of an embarrassment, frankly." Sirella sat down on the edge of the bed. "And there's no way of saving your little half-breed?"

"They've done everything they can."

"For what it's worth, I would not wish this tragedy on anyone. No one should have to lose a child. With modern medicine- Federation medicine- being what it is, it's horrifying that this can happen." She paused to place her hand over Grilka's. "I myself have brought three warriors into the world, but I also lost two to miscarriage."

Grilka looked away and exhaled slowly. "Sirella, I've dishonored my House."

"Nonsense. I may loath your choice in men, but I know you have a warriors spirit. You're a very non-traditional woman, and yet you've never been disrespectful to those traditions."

"No... I let fear lead my actions. I kept this secret from Quark, and fled Qo'noS to keep it hidden from my people."

"It is a Klingon mother's prerogative to decide how to raise her child."

"I wanted him to..." She paused, and Sirella lifted her hand, gesturing for silence.

"Then you will need to restore your honor. I would suggest allowing the father to do his culture's traditional deathrites."

"They vacuum-desiccate the body and pulverize it to keep as a memento."

Sirella pulled a face, not even attempting to hide her disgust, but then spread her arms out in indifference. "They probably find our keening equally as distasteful, like the humans do." She then gave Grilka a questioning look. "If you want, I can fetch him for you...?"

"No."

"Would you like me to stay?"

She was surprised, and then smiled. "Yes, I would be most grateful..."

Sirella nodded and resumed browsing the padd.

"This is not a scandal, yet. Only your household knows. It is up to you decide if you should reveal the details to the other Great Houses, or not."

For the first time in a long time, Grilka looked relieved.

* * *

"Officer Riker. What can I get for you?"

Tom swung his leg over the barstool like a Rigelian spider-bear. "Saurian Brandy."

Quark went to fetch the bottle, shaking his head. "Do you ever sit down like a normal humanoid?"

"Nope," he replied with a chuckle.

As far as Chief Security Officers went, W. Thomas Riker was 'okay'. He was no Odo, but then, no one was. Still, he was less of a push-over than some of the other Security Chiefs they'd had the last couple years. Theoretically, Quark should've been doing pretty well for himself. In reality, too many years of Federation life had domesticated him. As much as he insisted his bar was a testament to the traditional Ferengi culture, the truth was, each passing year found him reflecting a gentler, more liberal human ideology.

"How's Nerys?"

"Captain Kira," Tom corrected him, his voice gentle but firm. "Ask her yourself."

Quark gave him a knowing glance before starting to pour. "You've got this one in the bag, Riker. She loves 'em big, dumb, handsome, and bland. Usually she only gets two or three out of four... but you sir, check all the boxes."

" _Bland_?" He pulled a face of mock-offense.

"Oh right, the trombone. That really sets you apart from the crowd." Quark smirked.

Then froze.

Grilka's posse had entered the bar, two guards taking stand at the door, before Grilka herself appeared, with Tumek in step behind her.

"Excuse me," he said absently, as he slipped out from behind the bar and, somewhat nervously, approached the Klingons.

They greeted each other and embraced, but there was a veneer of discomfort between them. Quark led Grilka over to the bar, instead of her usual table.

"This is our new Chief of Security, Thomas Riker. Tom, Grilka daughter of Hakor, of the House of Grilka," he paused, "a dear friend."

"A pleasure to meet you."

"Now, if you can wait here a minute, I realize I haven't restocked the Maparian ale and need to, uh, hop into the back for just a- I'll be right back..."

"So, a friend of Quark's, huh?" Unable to help himself, Tom flashed her a winning smile.

"Ex-wife, actually." She relished his look of surprise. "Occasional lover."

"It's complicated, then."

"Indeed."

"I take it this is an 'occasion'?"

She laughed, then shot him a stern look. "It's not really your business."

Quark finally emerged from the stock room, ale in hand. He started fixing her drink.

"Tom, why don't you tell her about your escape from Cardassian prison?"

"It wasn't an escape. After the near-genocide on Cardassia, the Bajorans stepped up to help, and it really did a lot to heal both..." he started.

"Tumek!" Quark ducked away to get the older Klingons attention. "Let me guess: bloodwine?" While Tom continued to share the post-Dominion politics of Cardassia and Bajor, Quark tried to grill Tumek. "So, what... what brings you here this time?"

Tumek shrugged. "Oh, the usual... 'Financial advice'."

Quark narrowed his eyes, carefully studying the Klingon.

"There better not be any personal tragedy or heartbreak this time. If it's anything _but_ carefree smutting, I'm blaming you."

He chuckled in response, before taking a sip of the bloodwine.

Satisfied, the Ferengi turned his attention back to Tom and Grilka.

"Enough boring politics. Let's hear something with a little excitement! Tom, tell her about the time _I_ saved the little Sisko girl from Orion pirates."

For a moment Tom was irritated, but Quark gave him a quick pleading 'help-a-player-out?' look, and he felt obliged. He knocked back the rest of his brandy and smiled. "Well, you have to understand, it was Quark's fault that the Orions were on the station in the first place..."

* * *

There were times when life takes a path and the destination is clear. Quark had always felt sure of his path, regardless of the twists and turns: he would cultivate his business on Deep Space Nine, eventually building a franchise, some day catching a windfall, and buying a moon. Then a second moon, because cousin Gaila could go kick rocks.

But he found himself stumbling onto a different path: the Klingon death march. And the more time he spent with Grilka, the clearer he could see the destination.

That hardly stopped him from leading her up to the holosuites and firing up one of the 'romantic' Klingon programs. A bird in the hand, and all that.

But it _did_ weigh heavily on his mind, distracting him from their activities.

In the fallout from the failed pregnancy, Grilka admitted that it had exposed her feelings about their relationship... and _that_ had terrified her. From there, they'd had a meeting of the minds: on some level, they both wanted the same thing, but if they were being realistic, knew it was impossible.

They were just two very different people, from very different worlds... and you couldn't get much more different than Klingon and Ferengi.

Still, he couldn't help but feel like she was trying to gently maneuver him- it wasn't exactly manipulation, because Grilka wasn't the manipulative sort, she was very much a 'take-by-force' kind of girl- but she was nudging him onto this new path nonetheless. A part of him was panicking, but another part of him was willing.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure, sure. I'm good."

"You seem distracted."

He looked at her, studying her face: her gently sweeping cranial ridges, her unruly eyebrows, her spirited blue eyes.

She leaned forward, planting delicate kisses along his jaw, until she'd reached his lobes and started to nibble. "What's wrong, runwI'?"

He sat up, pulling away from her. " _runwI'_?"

"Mmm." She laughed and went back to his ear. He let her, but felt an inexplicable growing anxiety.

* * *

Ezri Dax was a little surprised- but not _that_ surprised- to get a call from Quark. She could tell from his expression that this was not going to be a short, or casual, conversation.

"Hello Ezri. How are things on your big fancy spaceship?"

" _Excellent_." She couldn't help but grin. "The Enterprise is everything I hoped it would be. We're doing so much important work here, and the crew is _so nice_. Starfleet really made sure everyone and everything was top-grade, it's just, a real honor to be here, you know? And as much as I loved serving under Sisko and Kira, Captain Picard has this certain... je ne sais quoi..."

"I don't speak Betazine, sorry. Speaking of the crew, how are things going with you and...?"

"Lieutenant Gomez."

"Right, right, the ditz."

She frowned. "Sonya is not a ditz. And I'll have you know, things are going great. But you didn't call to chat about my personal life." He looked sheepish. "Come on, spit it out."

"Grilka showed up, and, well. You remember the thing. With our, with the baby." He held is palms up pleadingly. "What can I say? I'm not... exactly... handling this very well."

She sighed. It had taken her two years- two years!- to get Quark to finally relent and start opening up to her as a counselor. Progress was slow... but he _was_ trying and hadn't given up. She could see where he'd naturally improved in his treatment of others, just from the Federation's cultural influence. But internally, he was still holding himself to standards that were both awful and impossible, and cultivating the self-loathing from that sense of failure. When she'd taken the re-assignment to serve on the Enterprise, she'd urged him to continue getting therapy from an on-board counselor- there were two others on Deep Space Nine by the time she left- but in her heart she'd known he wouldn't.

"It's probably because you never really allowed yourself to grieve."

"I grieved! I wept! You don't know what you're talking about. I don't know why I bother..."

"Okay, so you had a good cry and then you went and stuffed it all away in a deep dark hole and pretended like nothing happened."

He glared. "It was not a hole, it was a _floor vault_."

" _Quark_."

"I know." He threw his hands up, exasperated. "I _know_! I'm avoiding my feelings and I'm terrified of responsibilities and commitments and most of all, change. My philandering isn't about sex, it's about obsession with masculinity, feelings of inadequacy, and fear of the power women have over me. That I'm only hurting myself trying to live up to the ideas of a 'good Ferengi male'. Something about thrill-seeking and risk-taking. Oh, and who can forget, anxiety over Keldar's early death. _Does_ _that_ _cover it!?_ "

Ezri face-palmed. Boy, was he wound up. "Why are you yelling?"

He sulked and didn't respond. She wished she was there, in person, and not talking to a projection. As a counselor, she knew to avoid too much physical contact with a patient, but as a friend, she knew how badly the poor bastard just needed a hug.

She wove her fingers together and let the uncomfortable pause happen.

"This isn't really about the baby, is it? I think you're freaking out because Grilka told you she wants to settle down with you."

"No... that's... no," he sputtered. "It doesn't matter anyway, it would never work out."

"Why wouldn't it work out?"

"For one: she lives on Qo'noS," he held a finger and started to count off. "Two: I would die on Qo'noS." Two fingers. "Three: She can't run her House from Deep Space Nine." Three fingers, then four. "Four: Or from Ferenginar. Also, I'm pretty sure if I unleashed Klingons on Ferenginar, everyone would end up getting murdered."

"Those are pretty compelling reasons," Ezri agreed. "But there are plenty of Klingon Houses who's head spend all their time in space-"

"Fighting battles!"

"Are you sure about that? Because I seem to recall that House Mogh did just fine all those years Worf spent on Earth and then in Starfleet. And House Martok stood while he was trapped in the Dominion prison."

He scowled.

"I doubt you'd _die_ on Qo'noS, either. You've always managed to find away to weasel your way out of the most dire situations."

"Listen to yourself. I can see my desiccant-disk now: 'Decapitated by a bat'leth as an innocent bystander in a bar-fight at his wretched Klingon bar.' I'm telling you, Ezri."

"That's pretty specific, Quark. I think you're blowing this out of proportion. Except the part where Grilka would murder every last person on the entire planet of Ferenginar: that part sounds about right."

"Ha. Ha."

"Have you asked Grilka if she'd be willing to move to Deep Space Nine? More importantly: have you asked yourself _why_ you're so terrified of leaving?"

* * *

A few days after the lecture from Ezri, Quark reluctantly called Worf.

Worf was clearly resentful, and fixed the Ferengi with a tired, put-upon glare.

"What do you want?"

"I need some advice with Grilka."

He grunted. "Of _course_ you do. Don't you know any other Klingons whose time you can waste?"

"You helped me before..." and suddenly Quark had an epiphany. "You _like_ Grilka. You- you were only helping so you could live vicariously through me, you ugly son of a-!?" He was swept up a rush of righteous anger. "Oh no. No. You got Jadzia, you don't get Jadzia _and_ Grilka, not if I have anything to say about it." Truth be told, he wouldn't have dared go on a rant if Worf had been there in person.

Worf's frustrated expression turned into one of murder, but his voice was restrained. He knew Quark was incapable of backing up any threats, but he had to respect the attempt.

"You do not deserve Grilka. She is a glorious and powerful Klingon warrior. But she has been plagued with insanity, and has chosen to fetter herself to you. She's made it clear she is not interested in my advances. We are not rivals in this matter."

Quark fidgeted, his face still flushed, but the rage was easing up.

"Now. What is it you want?" Worf pressed.

"She- she's got it into her head that we, we should... that..." He paused. "Look, once we started dating, I didn't exactly keep up the whole Klingon courtship ritual. What, uh, what comes next?"

"You've already completed ritual courting, the next step is the legal bond of marriage. I believe you're familiar with traditional Klingon weddings, both formal and the brek'tal ritual." He waved his hand dismissively. "Consider your affair to be an extended part of the courting, if you must, but there is nothing more required of you."

"Oh."

Worf sighed, being very much done with this conversation. "What else is it?"

"She called me 'Shortie'?"

For the first time in his life, Quark witnessed a Klingon blush. He hadn't believed it was physically possible.

"That... is a _very_ private matter." He explained uncomfortably. "Pet names between a couple are... are very intimate in Klingon culture. You should share this with no one."

"Oh. ... _oh_. Sorry."

"If that is all..."

"Wait!" He hesitated for a moment. "Uh, how do you say 'eyebrows' in Klingon?"


	2. Some Kind of Conspiracy

**Chapter 2** : **Some Kind of Conspiracy**

"[Then they] destroyed the gods ... and turned the heavens to ashes." - Klingon Marriage Ritual

* * *

His next run-in with Klingons was when Chancellor Martok arrived on Deep Space Nine to re-negotiate territory boundaries with a recovering Cardassia. It was then that he got a whisper of the larger machinations at play, as they applied to his personal life. Needless to say: he was horrified.

Rather that socializing with the upper echelons of Starfleet and Cardassian officials, Martok had insisted on hobnobbing with the station locals in Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House, and Holosuite Arcade. ...Where he took a pointed interest in the proprietor.

Quark had his staff scrambling to gather enough bloodwine, while he stumbled through a salute to the Klingon leader.

"wo' martaq Dev-taH-jaj," he managed.

The horde of Klingons cheered to the toast, impressed that he'd used the right phrasing, but also amused with his thick accent and crap pronunciation. Quark had learned a fair amount of Klingon over the years and understood it well enough, but _speaking_ it... Where Klingon was harsh and guttural, Ferengi was brisk and chirpy. He could never get enough force behind the consonants- especially 'Q'- and often added a 'y' sound where there shouldn't be one.

"I've missed this!" Martok exclaimed. "It's been what, three years?"

"Coming up on four."

"I always did enjoy this bar. You run a good venue, Ferengi. Tell me," he tapped his fist against the bar counter-top, "have you ever considered expanding?"

"Wh- uh, yes. That's the long-term goal." Quark shrugged. "Right now I'm barely breaking even though."

"Hard to believe! As many years as you've been on this station, with the traffic it gets?"

Quark laughed sheepishly. "Well, success has always been a cyclical thing for me. Business is lucrative, investments are bringing in returns, and then- bam! Financial ruin. It's been, oh..." He did a quick count on his fingers. "Five times I've had to build from the ground up."

"That's a shame. Well, it's not that you've stumbled that matters, it's that you keep pressing on into battle." Martok leaned back, his right eye twinkling. "But if you could, I think a unique place like this would bring some welcome diversity to Qo'noS."

"Are you _kidding?_ " Quark gasped before he could stop himself. He was quick to offer an explanation. "Trust me, my desiccant-disk would end up reading: 'Decapitated by a bat'leth, as an innocent bystander in a bar-fight, at his failing Klingon bar.'"

"You've clearly put some thought into this."

"You don't know the half of it."

"I don't suppose those thoughts have anything to do with the Lady Grilka?"

Quark nearly jumped out of his skin. Then he planted his hands on the bar, leaning forward as he intensely scrutinized the Klingon leader, getting perhaps closer than it was wise to.

"Is this some kind of conspiracy?"

Martok chuckled. "I suppose you could call it such."

"Well." He stood up and bunched up a dish rag in his hands in mock indignation. " _Well_."

"She's quite taken with you."

"This has something to do with Worf, doesn't it? This is some kind of... of... vicarious conquest thing he's still up to."

"Ha, not at all. Worf is very unhappy with me right now."

This earned him a suspicious side-eye. "You were big on Worf and Jadzia, too. Maybe it's _you_ , with some kind of... kinky inter-species thing..."

"Tell me Quark, do you always suspect peoples motives are some manner of unusual fetish?"

"If there's no profit in it, then yes. What else is there?"

Martok laughed, and slammed his cup onto the bar. Then he turned his attention back to the crowd of Klingons.

"More bloodwine!" he roared.

The horde cheered.

* * *

Quark was a sucker and he knew it, but more importantly, Martok knew it. Which is how he found himself on Qo'noS, the civilian representative of the Deep Space Nine crew, for the Kot'baval Festival.

It was hot. It was dry. It was swarming with Klingons.

When Grilka heard they were coming- from Martok of course- she insisted they stay at her home.

It was no surprise that Worf was there, but his son Alexander was unexpected bonus.

"Captain Kira! Dr. Bashir!" Grilka greeted them, as they tried not too look to intimidated by her ever present guards. She paused for a moment at Tom, before remembering his name. "Mr. Riker. Welcome to House Grilka."

"Please deposit your admission fee in the box by the door," Quark joked, much to the confusion of the D.S. Nine crew. "Remember, her house is her house, as are its contents."

She teasingly pinched his ear, then embraced him. "Quark. Welcome back."

"It's been a while."

"Please," Kira begged, "don't start."

Grilka laughed and took the Bajoran Captain's arm. "Your timing is perfect. Please, join us for dinner."

Much to Kira's relief, there was nothing live or especially grotesque served. The only horror at the table was the disturbing innuendo Quark and Grilka shot back and forth all evening. They spent the meal catching up with Worf and Alexander, and then settled in for a quite night before the festivities.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Grilka had dragged Captain Kira out of the house to get her some traditional clothes. That left the rest of the crew to their own devices. There was _really_ only one option though: the one where they crashed a Klingon festival. Insisting they didn't need any of Grilka's men when they had Worf and Alexander with them, Tom Riker, Julian Bashir, and Quark took to the streets.

It was an impressive, thriving display. There were musicians, actors playing out the battle between Kahless and Molor, dancing and eating and drinking. Street vendors peddled a variety of creepy-crawly foods, clothes, weapons, and souvenirs.

After a bit of milling around and taking in the sights, they settled on a food cart that 'smelled right'... at least according to Worf. The Klingon cook shoved a over-flowing platter of fresh torgud gagh into Tom's hands, and another into Julian's. They stood by, waiting for Worf, Alexander, and Quark to be served.

"So what's it like, dating a Klingon?" Tom asked, pinching a clump of gagh between his fingers and stuffing it into his mouth.

"It's an adventure." Quark lit up, all too eager to share his exploits. "For one thing, all your fights end in either angry sex or make-up sex, even if she just cut you. Scratch that- _especially_ if she just cut you. And it always ends up being way more violent than the original argument."

"He keeps ending up in the infirmary," Julian agreed. "One time he was technically dead."

Tom, slurping down his food, shot Quark a questioning glance. The Ferengi held his hands up to his own throat and pantomimed strangling, to which Tom nodded in understanding.

"Rough handling is totally normal to them, though, it's just business as usual. They're not really into... weird stuff, that's kind of taboo. I really have no idea if this is just Grilka or not, but she loves it when things get-"

Worf cleared his throat loudly, and fixed Quark with a look that made it clear under no circumstances was he to finish that thought.

The vendor reappeared, juggling three more plates in hand, including Worf's Rokeg blood pie wrap. Their party served, the five started to move away from the food stand and towards the center of the street.

"...always the same damn thing: Qapla'! Qapla'! Qapla'! Every time. Worse, now she's got me starting to say it." He paused and absently chewed one of the worms.

Tom laughed. "It _does_ have a satisfying ring to it. Qapla'!"

"We understand each other pretty well, for the most part," Quark continued, on a more serious note. "But communication can be hard. As a species, we're basically at opposite ends of the food chain. Klingons celebrate death, and Ferengi aren't insane."

"They are instinctively cowards," Worf interrupted.

"Eh, same thing." He shrugged. "For all that their horrible operas wax poetic about love, Klingons believe in 'show, don't tell'. And Ferengi... we're taught to love our parents and children, but a wife is just a contractual agreement." He was growing flustered. "It's hard to- for both of us- to-"

He came to a very abrupt stop, having plowed head-on into a unsuspecting Klingon citizen... because of course he did. There had been no other possible outcome, really. The Klingon looked at Quark, then down at his gagh-strewn clothes, then back up at Quark. Then reached for his d'k tahg knife.

Quark twitched, that instinctive cowardice screaming at him to plead and cringe and make himself as small and harmless looking as possible. Years of dealing with rowdy Klingon customers meant that he had _just_ enough discipline to hold his ground, despite his racing pulse.

He even knew the appropriate response: 'You're in my way!' But in the moment he blanked on how to say it in Klingon. 'Get out of my face!'? 'Move it!'? Mentally scrambling, the best he could manage was a petulant hiss.

Worf pointedly stepped in between the two.

"You're in our way," he said with a steely calm.

"taHqeq!" He shouted past Worf at Quark. "QIp-ba'!"

"I could not agree more. So stupid, that he's not even worth drawing your blade."

The other Klingon snarled... then laughed, clapping Worf on the shoulder in camaraderie.

"Enjoy the festival!" He said, brushing gagh off his chest. "Hab SoSlI' Quch!" he slung the insult at the Ferengi as he walked off.

"Of course she does," Quark muttered, "compared to your wrinkly skull." As the adrenaline rush eased up, he found himself looking up at Worf curiously. "Thanks. You were awfully quick to handle that?"

"It was in the best interests of the Federation."

Julian laughed. "How do you figure?"

"The Klingons are allies and the Ferengi are... occasionally useful. Both are undergoing changing political climates. Some day, both may be members of the Federation. A union between the head of a Great House and the brother of the Grand Nagus is politically advantageous to all three parties. If Quark were slain on a diplomatic stay, it could potentially cause a serious break in friendly relations."

A slow dawning horror crossed Quark's face. "What?"

"Surely you've thought about the broader implications of your courting Grilka."

"Well I'm thinking about it _now_!"

* * *

Alexander allowed himself to drop behind, until he was walking in step with Quark, and threw an arm over his shoulder. Quark startled but didn't protest.

"That was almost pretty bad," he said with a chuckle. "And I thought _I_ was a klutz."

"You _are_. You just don't have a monopoly on it."

He laughed again. "You're funny."

"I try."

For a moment Alexander looked ahead at Worf, walking purposefully through the crowd, and shook his head. "He's really sore about you and Grilka, you know. But he'll do the right thing, no matter how he feels about it."

"You think I don't know that?"

There was a brief pause before Alexander spoke again. "It's not as bad as you think."

"What?"

"Qo'noS. Aside from the operas- you're right about that one. Look... I'm a terrible warrior and not much of a Klingon. I thought I'd never fit in. But it really isn't all blood and guts like it looks from the other side, when you're living in the Federation." He smiled. "When I finally realized I _could_ make a life for myself here, it really opened things up for me."

"That's great, kid. It's important to belong." Anyone else would've questioned the young man's sudden urge to share, but Quark was a bartender. This was his life.

"Chancellor Martok has done a lot to root out corruption in the High Council, and end feuding between the Great Houses. And it made me realize there _is_ a place on Qo'noS for peace and mediation."

"Wait, what?"

"All I'm saying, is I think my father's right about big picture. And... I think you'll get a lot of push back, but in the end, it'll make things better for everyone. I'm rooting for you."

Quark ducked out from under Alexander's arm. "No offense, but I feel like having you in my corner only hurts my case."

This time he laughed heartily, tossing his head as he thumped Quark on the back. "Fair enough!"

"Guys! Quark! Alexander!"

The others stopped when they heard Captain Kira's voice.

When Grilka, Kira, and the omnipresent guards caught up with them, they had to admit it had been worth the wait.

Kira was decked in full Klingon regalia. The look was both flattering and impressive, and she carried herself with the countenance of a warrior. The Captain of D.S. Nine was so far removed from her guerrilla solder days, it was sometimes easy for them to forget. It was no accident that they were now reminded of her savage past: she felt like a bad-ass.

On the other hand, Grilka wore the dress she'd commissioned on Ferenginar. It was cut in Klingon fashion, complete with cleavage window, but the fabric was brightly patterned and highly ornate. Cool blues and greens were punctuated with splashes of royal purple and playful gold accents, complete with decorative bead-work and piping.

"You look great," Quark said, swooning a little.

"The dress is very complimentary," Worf added, also swooning a little.

Tom shook his head at them, and then gave Kira a nod. "You look fantastic too, by the way."

"I know I do," she replied with an aloof smile.

An older and wiser Julian knew well enough that he didn't want to touch any of this with a ten-foot pole. He stood by, quietly working on his plate of gagh.

* * *

With Grilka guiding them through the festival, they had less time to meander and take in the sights, but she had a planned itinerary. Grabbing Quark's hand, she'd practically dragged him along, he was half-jogging to keep up. The others, amused, kept a more leisurely pace but didn't fall too far behind.

"I'm really surprised Dax didn't come," Alexander commented. "I mean, I assume she still loves Klingon culture as much as she did."

Julian looked flustered.

"Uh..." Tom said, "I'm sure Ezri would've loved to come. But she's been re-assigned to the Enterprise."

"Oh! That's a shame. It must be really hard on your relationship," he said to Bashir.

"We're no longer dating."

" _Oh_. Sorry- sorry, I didn't know." He metaphorically took his foot out of his mouth just long enough to put it right back in. "She dumped you?"

"Actually, no. I dumped her." He made a grim face. "Actually, it wasn't that straight forward. You could say it was mutual. I realized she was unconsciously using me as a stand-in, since I was... inoffensive. It's amazing how two people, who make a living caring for others, could be so blind to their own needs."

Alexander looked confused, and Tom found himself leaning over the younger mixed-Klingon and explaining a few things. "I understand," he said a little too loudly, "it makes sense, Dr. Bashir isn't very manly."

Julian face-palmed. "If there's any take away," he warned Alexander, "it's that you don't start dating someone because of a fever dream."

The conversation died as they reached their destination. At the epicenter of the city was an sweeping, incredibly coordinated dance performance. They watched in stunned silence as exotically costumed dancers pulsed to the tempo, a roaring beat that onlookers chanted along with.

Tom offered a hand to Kira, who grinned and took it, and they attempted to follow the moves from the street corner. Quark stood next to Grilka, his arm around her waist and her arm across his shoulder, both grinning like excited children.

"I didn't know your species had it in them."

"We're rather full of surprises."

He laughed. "You know what? Screw it, let's run off to Risa and elope," he said, swept up in the moment. "Forget about the bar, the Great Houses, all of it."

She laughed. "Absolutely not."

* * *

"'Son of Keldar'."

"Hmmm?"

Quark had been investing the collection of antique blades- mostly bat'leths, of course- in the weapon room. This was one of the few quiet moments they'd had since he'd arrived on Qo'noS. He glanced back at Grilka, who was sharpening and oiling one of the enormous swords. It was the the kind of thing you hired servants for, but she handled herself anyway, out of respect for her family weapons.

"You've heard all about my father Hakor, and grandparents, the battles won in my maternal lineage... but what of you? I've met Ishka, but tell me about Keldar."

He turned back to the display.

"He was a failure."

She didn't reply.

"Don't get me wrong. He was a good father. We loved him, he loved us. But he didn't have the lobes for business, and he always managed to fall behind more than he ever got ahead. He was a lot like my little brother, actually. And yes- I appreciate the irony." He touched one the blades, and jumped away in a panic as it fell off of its stand, clattering loudly on the floor.

"Maybe it would be better if you didn't touch anything."

"Yeah." He replied absently and picked up the bat'leth, bounced it in his hands, feeling the weight of it. "I promised myself I'd do better than Keldar did. And here I am, just barely keeping afloat, a quantifiable a failure compared to my mother, brother, and even my nephew...

"You know Nog went into Starfleet for the same reason I went into business: to succeed where his old man had failed. And I tried my best to stop him. Not just because it was unprofitable," Quark explained as he hung the blade back on its stand. "He was ungrateful and I resented it. None of our extended family ever offered Rom or me apprenticeships. Maybe it wasn't the most glamorous job, but it would've kept him from having to learn the finer points of giving oomox. And maybe he thought the Federation wouldn't take advantage of him, but _I_ knew better."

"What makes you say that?"

"Starfleet puts on a good front, but they always had more to gain from him than he had to gain from them. The worst part of it is, I was right. I _was_ right. He got sucked up into that war, was almost killed in action, lost his leg... we're not like Klingons, Grilka, we're not _built_ for that. I was vindicated and I've always hated myself for it. It's the worst feeling in the world."

Grilka set down her bat'leth and padded across the room. She rested her head between his shoulders, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

"But they played the long con," he continued, "so a few years from now, he'll be the first Ferengi to join Starfleet _and_ the first Ferengi to become a Starfleet captain. Making history, just like Rom the Grand Nagus, or Ishka the revolutionary."

He glared at his distorted reflection in the curved sword.

"While I get to be like my father- a failure and a nobody."

* * *

"Rezogh, you should help him with the luggage."

"I don't need help," Quark argued, as he proceeded to drop one of the bags. There was the distinct sound of breaking glass as it landed.

"I know you don't," Grilka replied, "but I wanted to talk to you before you left."

He relented and let the Klingon guard take his things. Rezogh carried them off like they were nothing, much to Quark's chagrin. Once he was out of earshot, Quark gave her a questioning glance. "What is it?"

"Nothing. You were just embarrassing yourself."

"Eh..." In the silence that followed, he fidgeted impatiently, clasping and then unclasping his hands, awkwardly placing them on his hips, finally settling on casually folding his arms. "So, uh, Grilka."

"Yes?"

"Have you- would you ever consider moving to Deep Space Nine? Under the right circumstances?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Under the right circumstances- but not permanently. The quarters are a little too cramped."

"Fair enough." He cleared his throat. "Hypothetically, just for laughs. If... you were to remarry, would you... want... the whole formal Klingon wedding thing?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She gave him a curious look. "Unless... my bridegroom wanted one."

"In this entirely make-believe scenario, the answer is definitely 'no'."

"I see. Would he hypothetically want to do his native wedding customs?"

"Divine Treasury, no. Trust me, not even the Ferengi like Ferengi weddings. It's basically hours of hashing out contract terms with your future father-on-law, trying your best not to get swindled. But it happens, Grilka. It happens, because _you've_ been thinking about this since you decided to settle down, but _he's_ been thinking about it since the moment he found out his spawn was female."

"That does sound terrible." She paused. "Although... while he'd be my third husband-"

"Third?"

"-in theory, it would be his first marriage that he wasn't tricked into. His large and ridiculous family may want some kind of reception."

He snorted. "Well my family can speculatively kick rocks, it's not their wedding." But then he saw her expression, and quickly backtracked. "Unless... the bride wanted one."

"We could have a legendary feast."

Once again, Quark felt an inexplicable growing dread. "Grilka, is this one of those things where you say you don't want something but you really do?"

It was.

"Of course not," she scoffed. A few minutes later, she added: "That said, I am _quite_ stunning in the traditional red gown... and I believe the bridegroom's uniform would be a very flattering look for you as well."

"Lady, you're out of your skull if you think I'm wearing anything but formal full dress attire, with tails so long they skim the ground."

* * *

It was another two months before Grilka was able to get away for a few days on Deep Space Nine. What had been a relatively short period between their rendezvous was now a long and trying wait. Is this what happened to people in love? They lose their grasp on reality and all perspective?

It didn't matter. She was here now, in his suite. He'd used the down time wisely, and was ready to spring his carefully constructed scheme.

For a change, he made the first move, acting as the aggressor, determined to keep her guessing.

They were still half dressed when he slipped up, making the tragic mistake of opening his damn mouth.

"We make quite a couple, don't we?" Quark flirtatiously ran his finger over the top of his ears helix. "A gorgeous, powerful Klingon warrior-woman, and a dashing, clever Ferengi entrepreneur... what?"

"Dashing?"

This had backfired. "...Handsome?"

"Handsome?" She didn't laugh, but she was clearly amused. "But you're so funny looking."

He froze. "You don't find me attractive."

He was surprised by how much it stung. Quark wasn't stupid... by _Ferengi_ standards he was a solid seven, but he knew that by _other humanoids_ he was maybe a two. If they were generous. He'd always taken comfort in the fact that females in many species valued charm and personality as much- if not more- as physical appearance, and those he had in spades. Plus, he was still better off than poor Rom, who by his estimations was in the negative. The fact Rom had married the stunning Leeta only proved his point.

But Grilka had never seemed put off by his looks. He'd assumed that on some level she'd found him, if not handsome per se, at least 'cute'.

"It's not that..." she backpedaled, "it's not that I find you _un_ attractive." She struggled, unable to come up with a convincing lie on the spot.

"Ughhhh..."

"You're not bad! Just, funny."

He rolled his eyes. "Please, don't hurt yourself."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Well, I generally prefer more complex ridges, but your forehead is... intriguing."

It was an important life lesson: he never, ever wanted to hear his appearance described as 'intriguing' again. It smacked of desperation and false sincerity. Somehow, that was worse than 'ugly', 'hideous', and the usual 'looks just like a butt'.

"And?"

"And... I like you pointy nostrils."

He howled with laughter. "Are you _serious_?"

"And..." her hands drifted down lower. "This is quite attractive."

"Really."

"Yes, Klingons and humans are quite... utilitarian in that regard. It was a pleasant surprise."

Feeling a little better, he leaned forward to start playing with her hair. "And my lobes?"

She made a sound.

It was not a good sound.

"They... certainly are... ears."

Incensed, he pulled away from her, jumped off the bed, and started to storm off.

"Quark..." Too late she realized that she should've said that they were 'large'... which was both true, and didn't specify whether or not she found them appealing. (She did not.)

"I can't do this right now. I'm going to go take a shower."

It was an important life lesson: when in doubt, tell a Ferengi they have big ears, especially if you're sleeping with them. Grilka sighed in defeat, and flopped back onto the bed to rest.

* * *

After they'd made up, and Quark was released from the infirmary, he took the day off and joined her in the bar, letting Broik run the place.

Wordlessly, he placed a padd on the table and slid it over to her.

"What's this?" Tumek asked, as Grilka started to browse it.

"It's a contract," she said after a minute of reading. "'The Revised Waiver of Property and Profit'."

Having been subjected to enough of Ferengi culture, he was more than passingly familiar with the clause. "A prenuptial agreement? This is an outrage."

Grilka looked up, her face unreadable. Without thinking, she reached over and shoved her fingers into Quark's ears. The _intent_ was to keep him from listening.

"Tumek, this is written to protect _my_ assets _from_ him."

Quark grew flushed and started trembling. "I... can... still... hear... you..." he squeaked.

Grilka pulled her hands away, realizing what she'd just done. He gave her a tense smile, a slight desperate look in his eyes. She grinned playfully and reached for his lobes again, this time with purpose.

Tumek turned away in disgust of their public display. One of the nearby Ferengi waiters caught sight of what was going on, fumbled, and dropped his tray.

Soon Grilka turned her attention back to the padd.

"'In the case of the contract therewithin is voided by either party'," she mused. "Nonsense. I wouldn't break the contract, and if you tried, I'd rip out your spine and beat you to death with it." She laughed, and Quark nervously laughed with her, clearly not 100% sold that she was joking.

"I will require two addendum," she said finally.

He was afraid to ask. "...yes?"

"This document is correct that the Klingon party requires strict monogamy for the duration of the contract." She waved the padd in front of him. "I propose a concession for holographic activities."

"Wait, _really_?"

"Really."

"What's the other one?"

Her eyes lit up with a devious gleam.

"On our wedding night, I am going to burn all of your stupid pajamas."

* * *

The matter had, in fact, ended badly for Worf.

"'I feel that marriage no longer suits me'." He fumed, tossing the invitation padd across the room. He paced, his anger building. "No, it would _not_ be an honor to be your Tawi'Yan."

It was a lie. Worf's love of Klingon wedding ceremonies would ultimately trump his feelings of betrayal and resentment.

He froze when he heard Martok thundering down the hall.

"WORF! I have news!"

* * *

Ferengi formal full dress attire was a symphony of intricate contrasting textures, complex embroidered patterns, a shimmering golden iridescence, dripping tassels and fringe and elaborate bead-work.

All in glorious, complete monochrome.

He was wearing at least five different layers, with an equally gaudy headdress and heeled boots, all in a matching warm cream color. As promised, his coattails touched the floor.

It was the first and only time she'd ever see Quark head-to-toe in one solid color.

As for Grilka in her traditional red Klingon gown: 'Stunning' was insufficient. 'Radiant' was barely adequate. 'Magnificent'? 'Priceless'? He was reminded of a passage he'd picked up from the Federation.

"What light through the window breaks?" he misquoted under his breath, earning a puzzled look from Tumek.

It is the east, and Grilka was the sun.


End file.
